Appy Stories

 The brooke of murky waters gushed in the hollow of the bulging expanse. The ebb and flow tickled his sleepy self. The gurgling waves disturbed his quietitude. The wind made its way noisily, echoing in his ecosystem. His nose twitched from the offerings of the wind. Nature should never be suppressed, he thought.  For sometime, the turbulence felt silent. He rested his back on the bark and was about to doze off when the dam broke. All the hell broke loose, too, as the brooke decided to embarrass him post a hearty meal at his saali's house.  Bhilavi Prasad Chaurasiya rushed to the toilet where already somebody was digging gold. He banged the precarious door with precaution as he had no intention of being the goldsmith today. His own precious mines were melting. From tapping to bombarding the door with his fiesty fist, Bhilavi demonstrated his internal conflict externally.  'Arey bhaiya, please come out soon. The rivulets are now flooding my distraught banks.' Bhilavi c...

 Long ago in the land of India, there lived a billionaire couple called Chandanis. It was quite sometime the couple was happily married but gloom soon invaded their kingdom. The glorious couple was unable to bear a child. It was the era when the morbid virus ruled the world. Repeated protocol of social distancing was a big hurdle that tormented their reproduction reputation.  No assisted reproduction techniques worked as the laboratories were over-burdened with Covid samples. The shame and helplessness of not bearing a child hovered over them even in the 30th century. Whom to approach? How to address the problem? They were clueless. Years had passed by, yet the country still had tantriks and Babas that comforted the illusioned minds. Finally, after the efforts of a virgin Baba Mrs. Chandani experienced morning sickness. Amidst, the 300th lockdown she gave birth to a handsome, little dusky boy. The naming ceremony was a hushed affair where only the elite  doctors of the co...

 The weather was misty wearing a veil to shroud the morning's beauty. The sun was still under the blankets of foamy clouds. Kallu lay coiled up under the huge banyan tree which had spread its giant boughs in the blue expanse of the sky. The winter had frozen his blood and he waited for her warm touch to thaw his shuddering bones. I drank his blood happily as he didn't have the nerve to move even to scratch his brown fur. My breakfast was lavish today. In one of the chocolate dark folds of his skin, I feasted at the expense of my host. She was late today. Maybe, the wintery mornings were holding her back from bringing Kallu's breakfast. Every morning she dawned with a pet pug by one arm. It was a royal parade, the pug flaunting her.  She would stop to feed Kallu, the stray mongrel, some biscuits and cool water. She would kneel down next to him and with gloved hands scratch him. Kallu in response would wag his tail and grunt in satisfaction. The biscuits, the touch, the lady ...

I was born by mistake. A product of failure of contraceptive trudged along life. Failure is my second name and on my face has a permanent address. I encounter failure at every junction like the Pandu waiting to get 100-200 out of your drought struck wallet. Journalist for namesake in a career of ten years no sansani or tehelka to my credit. Five boyfriends but none has walked upto the altar. Here again I'm in the wrong lane. Stuck in the chaotic lanes of Mumbai. Oh, sorry a mistake again. This is a highway. Tap Tap.. An intruder to my musings. 'Allah ke naam pe de de Mai! Bhagwan bhala karega!'  How can Bhagwan issue the receipt for bill paid in Allah's name? But I dare not ask the offender taping incessantly on my Nano's glass plane. Despite, shooing off this poorly clad, determined gentleman, he keeps approaching me again and again. Can someone please explicitly explain to him that Nano owners are poverty struck in an occult way. Who drives a car where only the dr...

 The steam from his purple coffee mug rose to the sky and became a part of it till it was no more an entity. The aroma of freshly pounded beans wafted the air, reaching out to neighbors till it belonged no more to him. The beverage sat lonely on the window sill till it turned cold like his contemplative stare. Exhausted, waiting for his eager lips to touch its rim, the mug wept steamy tears. Shanmukh stared at the canvas with the paint on his brush drying and the coffee untouched. The painting missed a crucial element. What the painter couldn't tell. ****** The cold waters streamed down her long silky mane. Each time the bucket emptied itself on her taut caput, she said a small prayer. Twenty-two buckets from twenty-two springs were washing her off her past karma. Or that was what her Amma had believed. She only knew whatever it was she would be relieved of her barrenness, her infertility. At this very Rameshwaram Theertham, Lord Rama's exile had ended. Her, too, would end. Bel...

 He flushed the bundle down the siphon jet. Once. Twice. Thrice. The matter kept resurfacing. Finally, on the fourth attempt things were clear. The pot and his bank account looked clean. Relaxed, he plonked on the sofa and fell asleep. A dreamless sleep. **** "Phew!! It was a hard day at work!" Mr. Ramit Shah slouched down the open drains and a wave of murkier waters carried him to the 'Muckier Ganda Party's' meeting. Having hunted few local 'Hands' involved in shitty business, he was dragging his over-sized belly into the sewage pipelines. Away from the glaring eye of mediocrity, the sewers were host to many ugly, filthy situations. 'Aapka Sauchalay Hamara Vidyalay' the air was pregnant with euphoric optimissim. Tubifex worms wriggled with sticky banners and slippery intentions. Their clamoring cries rose and fell like Benthoveen's notes. The roaches were busy serving tea to the gathered masses as that is where their present leader came from. ...

 The street was darker than the darkest Black I had ever seen. Blacks-that's how the whites referred to them as or that was how they ought to refer to them as. Mommy, my grandmother of seventy held my trembling hand in her sturdy palms. My sweaty palms absorbed by her sponge like cold hands. We both walked uphill in search of Jones. It was 8pm and even boys of his age ought to be back home by this time. It was a rule, and to overpower it was to walk over the Bible. In absolute silence, Mommy stomped her foot to scare off any earthy reptile. My palms were working overtime today, and the sweat made the grip loose yet she didn't transfer me to the next hand. Her right hand perennially held a rosary. The glutinous beads fell in seconds like lousy raindrops. But today she was praying fervently though she didn't make it evident. If Jones, a milky white teenager whose croaked upper incisor popped out when he smiled was not found, Megan, Mommy's daughter would kill her. Megan, ...